


cherry pie

by novoaa1



Category: Marvel, Shameless (US)
Genre: Cigarettes, F/F, Rich Natasha Romanov (Marvel), a shameless (u.s.) and marvel universe combination, also mentions the battle for new york from the mcu, flirty natasha romanov (marvel), follows some of the canon elements from shameless, i don't think it's totally necessary to have seen the show to read this but it'd probably help?, natasha is still black widow in this, reader is essentially fiona gallagher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27569734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: “I have a… friend coming over tomorrow night, okay?" you inform them, arms crossed and brow arched so they know you mean business. "I want you guys to help me tidy up the house tonight and tomorrow so it looks nice by the time she comes for dinner.”“Is this a ‘friend’ or a friend?” Ian immediately asks with a crooked smirk, wiggling his brows obscenely.Christ. “I’m not answering that.”“It’s definitely the person she’s been screwing for the past couple months,” Lip chimes in next. “What was her name?”Ian frowns. “Natalie?”“Nah, I thought it was something Russian—she’s Russian, right?”“'Natalie’isRussian, idiots,” Debby inputs then, rolling her eyes dramatically. “It’s the American-ized version of 'Natalia.’”Lip’s green eyes light up. “Does she know Svetlana?”You resist the urge to heave a sigh. “No."Or: You're a street kid with deadbeat parents working to provide for your younger brothers and sister in southern Chicago. One day, a pretty redheaded woman comes into the shitty diner where you work.
Relationships: Natasha Romanov (Marvel) & Reader, Natasha Romanov (Marvel)/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 94





	cherry pie

**Author's Note:**

> i think i saw someone else who wrote a shameless!reader au a while back and then i wrote this but i honestly can't remember
> 
> anyways i found it in my drafts and didn't cringe too much when i read over it again, so here we are
> 
> also i overcame my writer's block for my harley x ivy wip! so hopefully i'll be able to get a new chapter of that out soon

You meet her on a Thursday. It’s late into March, and the city is ripe with humidity—the kind that very nearly has you sweating through your grey uniform T-shirt on the short walk from the L to the diner where you work: a quaint run-down little joint called Patsy's. 

The kids are at school with the exception of Liam, who’s over at the daycare down the street learning the alphabet or something… _for free_. (Courtesy of one of the moms on the board of administrators who lives in your neighborhood and trades you family-sized lasagnas for a drug-free cup of your pee every other week.) 

Just another day in the life. 

Before you can blink, you’re about a quarter of the way into an 8-hour shift playing peacemaker between Kenny the dishwasher and another waitress named Sandra who got into a screaming match yesterday over some relationship-y thing you can’t be too bothered to look any further into.

And then… well. Then, _she_ struts in.

She’s rich, you can tell—well-pressed coal-black slacks and a somewhat masculine-looking (but likewise expensive) button-up white blouse adorn her taut curved figure, a matte-black designer purse dangles daintily off the crook of her clothed elbow, and the way she holds herself… Jesus, it’s practically _oozing_ wealth with a healthy side of unwarranted pretentiousness in spades. 

She’s attractive, too (which is putting it lightly), because she has perfectly-done wavy locks of fiery-red hair tumbling over her shoulders, full red-painted lips that look soft as silk and jade-green eyes which glitter like emeralds in the blazing afternoon sun. All in all, you really do think she might be the most attractive human being you’ve ever laid eyes upon.

You can’t decide if you’re more irked or merely entranced as you watch her confidently seat herself in an open booth smack dab in the middle of your assigned section, all perfect posture and infuriating lopsided red-lipped smirk and perfectly manicured nails with a glossy clear finish. 

Either way, she’s a customer and, in the interest of keeping your job, it behooves you to service her. 

Sighing quietly to yourself, you grab a messily-plated order of two Sunnyside-up eggs, bacon and toast to serve up for the lone unshaven man at table 4. You drop it before him with a generic “Here you are, Sir! I hope you enjoy” that he returns with a noncommittal grunt on your way over. 

The redheaded woman is gazing off through the Patsy’s-logo-emblazoned window and into the distance as you approach. You cringe internally at the audible squeak your Converse sneakers make against the tile. 

“Hi! Welcome to Patsy’s,” you chirp pleasantly, smiling jovially down at her even as she turns to fix you with a rather intense green-eyed stare. “I'm Y/N, your server for today. Can I get you started out with something to drink—water, coffee?”

That lopsided ghost of a smirk widens as if you’ve just said something particularly amusing. “A glass of water would be lovely, thank you,” she entreats politely in a voice like silk.

“You got it,” you assure her courteously, marking the booth number (3) and customer count (1) on your notepad with a messy scribble. “I’ll grab that for you, and in the meantime, you can have a look at the menu. Does that sound okay?"

“You’re very polite,” she remarks in lieu of answer, quirking a single immaculately-manicured brow up at you and widening her grin to bare perfect straight white teeth like it’s charming (—and fuck it all, but you’re loathe to admit, it ~~kind of~~ is). 

You duck your head and flash the ~~gorgeous~~ rich lady a slightly uncomfortable grin—partly because it’s genuinely a kind sentiment, but primarily because: how the _fuck_ are you supposed to respond to that? 

“Um, thanks,” you manage, then immediately curse yourself at how _stupid_ you sound. 

“You’re welcome.”

“… Right,” you say eventually once it becomes abundantly clear the rich lady isn’t going to say anything more, tucking your notepad and pen into the pocket of your apron with a passable smile. “I’m just gonna go… get that water for you.”

“I’ll be here.”

(She asks you out later that day, when she’s paid her check with a sleek matte-black credit card that has the name “Natalia Romanova” in neat white print—dinner on Friday, 8:00 sharp.

There are just about a million reasons that you shouldn’t say yes to this obscenely rich woman with pretty eyes and a red-lipped smirk that screams danger… and yet, you can’t help yourself. 

You say yes. 

You don’t even know her name, or how old she is, or what in the world she’s doing ordering a single slice of cherry pie at a crap-ass diner in one of the sketchiest parts of downtown Chicago, not even to mention paying for it with a sleek black credit card that positively screams exorbitant wealth… but you know this: things are gonna be different, now. You can feel it.)

— — 

Three months later sees you sort of kind of dating that same pretty rich lady twho strutted her way into Patsy’s on a muggy Thursday afternoon like she owned the place only to sit down and buy a shitty piece of cherry pie like there was no place she’d rather be. 

She’s not from around there—South Side, that is. She’s from Edison Park (of course), well-known as one of the richer parts of Chicago where people live in houses and condos rather than shitty gunshot-riddled suburbia and it’s a solid $14 (tax not included) for a pack of Marlboro reds.

She has a name, too: Natasha Romanoff. Turns out, she’s kind of famous—some super-secret agent for some big conglomeration called S.H.I.E.L.D., fought in the famed Battle for New York when the aliens invaded last year… and the list goes on. 

They call her Black Widow on the news, evidently, but you stopped paying for cable months ago when the company upped their monthly charge from $80 to $95 (because seriously, that’s fucking obscene), and you’ve never really cared that much about your sort of kind of girlfriend’s public persona, even if she is world famous. 

(I mean, it factors in, of course—in a lot of ways. 

Primarily with you wondering what the hell she’s doing wasting her time and money and effort on you… but, whatever. You never have enough time to think on it for very long.)

It’s summertime, now, and “hot" has taken on a whole new meaning. Seriously, you can’t take a walk down to Sheila’s without sweating through your clothes, no matter how little you wear. 

(Natasha likes that bit—the skimpy clothing, the way your pebbled nipples show through the thin cotton fabric of your shirt, the way your jean shorts never reach more than quarter of the way down your caramel thighs… And you like that Natasha likes it, even as she’s forced to dress business-casual more often than not for meetings with important contractors and big names flying in and out of Chicago, plus the “consulting work" she does with her friend Tony’s people at Stark Industries.)

But summertime also means that the kids aren’t in school, so you’re dealing with 8-year-old Carl’s homicidal tendencies and 9-year-old Debby’s incurable baby fever and whatever the fuck Lip and Ian are up to nowadays (probably getting their hearts broken by some girl/boy and smoking a hell of a lot more than you’d like them to). Liam’s got summer school down at the same daycare he attended during the school year, which is sorta nice, especially since it’s still 100% free so long as you keep coughing up a drug-and-alcohol-free urine test for Shelby when she needs it.

Debby's running a summer daycare outta the house, too, but it’s not nearly as fancy as the one near Patsy’s and you’re thankful as all hell Liam’s spending his summer days down over there. Maybe it means there’s hope for him yet—hope that he won’t turn out nearly so fucked up as the rest of you. 

Speaking of fuck ups, Frank drops in sometimes (always drunk off his ass or gone on something stronger) to beg for money, swipe a couple beers from the fridge and/or make them scramble to fix whatever entirely self-imposed idiocy he’s gotten himself into this time.

So, things are crazy but that’s nothing new—and besides, you have something that helps with all the crazy. Some _one_ , rather. 

Not to mention, it’s getting a little serious, now. (To be honest, you don’t really know what that entails, but you think Natasha probably does.)

Consequently, it shouldn’t feel like such a sucker punch when the two of you are laid up completely naked in the king-sized bed (retrofitted with ridiculously soft eggshell-white sheets and plush pillows that feel like clouds) in her penthouse, covered in sheens of dewy sweat and panting for breath, and she says, “You talk a lot about your family.”

You nod distractedly towards the ceiling, lungs burning as you work to manage your exhales. Your body tingles with the remembrance of Natasha’s bruising touch. “Yeah.”

“Can I meet them?”

_Shit_. 

— — 

“Alright, everybody listen up,” you declare a couple nights later when you've (miraculously) managed to gather everyone in the from room—Debby and Carl on the sofa, Ian draped across the arm, Lip leant attentively over the back. (Liam’s over in the kitchen taking a nice long nap in his crib. They’ve got a baby monitor on the mantel in case they miss any telltale noises of oncoming disaster.)

You take a long pull from your cigarette to calm your nerves, inhaling deeply and holding it for a second or two before exhaling a stream of grey smoke. You roll your eyes as Lip makes a face and bats it away. 

“I have a… friend coming over tomorrow night, okay? I want you guys to help me tidy up the house tonight and tomorrow so it looks nice by the time she comes for dinner.”

“Is this a ‘friend’ or a friend?” Ian asks with a crooked smirk, wiggling his brows obscenely. 

“I’m not answering that.”

“It’s definitely the person she’s been screwing for the past couple months,” Lip chimes in next. “What was her name?”

Ian frowns. “Natalie?”

“Nah, I thought it was something Russian—she’s Russian, right?”

“Fine so, like, Katya?”

“’Natalie’ _is_ Russian, idiots,” Debby inputs then, rolling her eyes dramatically. “It’s the American-ized version of ’Natalia.’” (Your stomach clenches nervously at the utterance of Natasha’s given name. Damn Debby’s unfailingly clever insight.)

Lip’s green eyes light up. “Does she know Svetlana?”

“No."

“Does she speak Russian?”

“I think so, yeah."

“Is she rich?”

“Huh?"

“Where does she live?”

“Um—"

“What kind of car does she drive?”

“I—"

“Does she—"

“Alright, enough!” you interject at a near-shout, your head spinning. “Her name is Natasha. She lives in Ashburn, and works in… freelance international relations.”

“Rich,” Ian murmurs. 

“Called it,” Lip whispers back.

You ignore them. “And what she thinks means a lot to me, okay? So can we all collectively do our best to not completely fuck this up?”

“Of course, Y/N.”

“Yup.”

“Definitely.”

“Mhm.”

(You don’t believe them for a second.)

— —

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts? it's been a minute since i wrote reader-insert
> 
> swing by my fic / fandom / writing [tumblr](https://novoaa1writes.tumblr.com/) to talk to me about fics and related stuff!


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